Two in the Field (32 page)

To celebrate what promised to be our last night together, I splurged for a meal at the Parker House, an old, elegant Boston hotel near the Charles River famous for its butter rolls. We walked along the river afterward, watching the lamplighters set about their work as twilight thickened. My attention was caught by an artist working furiously in the fading light to capture the luminous river surface. He was preppy-looking, not much older than Tim; his clothes, even spotted with paint, looked expensive. His brush strokes suggested rather than defined the Charles and the background cityscape. Even unfinished the canvas had wonderful depths. He seemed oblivious of us until finally he set to cleaning his brush with a camphor-soaked rag.

“Beautiful composition,” I told him.

He appraised us. “Thank you, sir.”

“Do you sell your work?”

“I have, on occasion, but I’m still a student.”

“What is your name?”

“Childe Hassam.”

In the future I’d seen his turn-of-the-century renderings of Boston and New York in an exhibition of American Impressionists. Wonderful works. Amazing to think that he hadn’t yet painted them.

“I hope to study in Paris,” he said.

I had an inspiration. “Would you consider a commission right now? Just a sketch, not a painting, of Tim here?” Cait would treasure it. “I’ll pay your price, within reason.”

“I’m no street painter,” he said archly. “Walker Smith is my mentor.” He said the name as if it should mean something to us.

“Well, my offer stands.”

“I can’t—” he began, then looked at Tim again. Then again,
longer. “Very well,” he said abruptly, and rummaged through his box for charcoals. Motioning for Tim to sit on a low wall, the dark currents of the Charles behind him, he set to work.

I watched the sketch emerge from an initial oval that quickly took on Tim’s features. The young man had a magical talent. As Tim’s eyes darkened on the paper, a peculiar thing happened—suddenly I was seeing Colm’s eyes, different from Tim’s only in that some indefinable quality was enhanced and extended. I stared in wonder for a few seconds, then moved closer. Hassam worked intently.

“Do you see it?”

“What?” He followed my gaze to his sketch, where Colm looked out at us. I’d seen the dead father’s eyes only in steely photographs or shadowy images. Degrees of gray. Tim’s hair was sun-lightened, his face burnt by the prairie summer. But those hazel eyes were Colm’s.

Cait must think that every single day.

“He possesses something powerful,” Hassam said. “Very powerful. I want to make another.” He ripped the sheet from his pad and handed it to me. He refused to take money, so long as he could make another image. Tim shifted restlessly.

“Sit still,” we told him.

“Everything’s fine,” Andy said, taking a seat with us in the grandstand. His eyes looked better. “Alice looks forward to your coming.” He punched Tim’s shoulder. “You’ll not sleep in her parlor, though, but bunk in the rear pantry.”

Tim smiled but showed less enthusiasm than I thought the situation warranted.

“They’re on their game today,” Andy noted after a glance at the scoreboard, which showed the Boston Juniors leading the visiting Ipswich team by 13 runs. The players were at least three
years older than Tim, some four or five, and I could tell that he was apprehensive.

“Will I have a chance?” he asked Andy.

“I’ll need to see you out on the diamond, but if you’ve got the makings, sure, you’ll be fit for the Juniors after a few years’ seasoning on school nines.”

Good, I thought; he was taking Cait’s letter to heart.
School
 … I could sense it burning into Tim’s brain. The O’Neill colony didn’t yet have one, and he hadn’t reckoned on this.

“I’ll find paid work,” he said hastily.

“That
too.”
Andy patted his shoulder. “I’ve already talked to George. You’ll have a position at his sporting goods store so long as it doesn’t hurt your schooling.”

Tim clapped his hands at the prospect of working for the star shortstop. “Can I do it
instead
of school?”

“Not a chance,” Andy said firmly. “If something goes by the wayside, lad, it’ll be the job.”

Cal McVey was umping the Junior contest. Andy took Tim down to say hello between innings, and I tagged along. I remembered that Mac was interesting in boxing, and I’d heard that he sparred on occasion with the current champ and Boston’s darling: John L. Sullivan. McVey politely agreed to give Tim pointers on both boxing and baseball. He seemed a bit distant; in the past he’d been chummier toward me. Andy said he was married now and had an infant daughter.

“Mac’s one of the ones acting real curious,” he added.

“What do you mean?”

“Something’s brewing.” Andy lowered his voice. “Last week I spotted Spalding getting off a train right behind Mr. Hulbert, the White Stockings’ president. Spalding ducked back into the car just as I laid eyes on ’em.”

“He tried to hide?”

“He
did
hide. Our Captain, sneaking around with the opponent! Since then, the other Western players—Mac, Barnes, White—have all been spotted around Hulbert’s hotel. It’s a sure sign he’s trying to sign them away from Harry.”

“He’ll do more than that,” I said, recalling the next significant chapter of baseball history. “He’ll launch a new organization called the National League.”

“What about the Association?”

“Washed up,” I said. “All the major teams will go over to the new league.”

“You sure?” He looked at me closely; I knew he meant,
You know this from the future?

“Yup.”

“I’d better tell Harry.”

I nodded in agreement. If anti-tampering rules existed, it seemed clear they were being flouted.

After the game, Andy commandeered a couple of the Juniors to work out with his nephew. Tim looked self-conscious, but the older boys accepted him. I thought Tim performed well once he loosened up. But where I saw plusses, Andy saw limitations. “You’ll need a deal of work,” he said gravely. “Are you up to it?”

Sweating, Tim swallowed and nodded. Drilling in the stifling heat on this dusty diamond, I suspected, wasn’t so glorious as his big-league dreams.

At the front door of the small rented house, located a few blocks from the South End Grounds, Andy proudly introduced his Alice. Petite and pretty, she wasted no time in taking charge of Tim. “A fine, handsome lad, if grimy.” she said. “We’ll draw a bath straight away.”

I struggled to keep from laughing at Tim’s expression.

They invited me to stay for dinner, but an inner voice said my task was done and urged me to move on. As I gave Tim a farewell hug I whispered, “Remember, you can always come back.”

“Tell Ma I’ll be okay,” he said with a catch in his voice.

Alice marched him inside for his bath.

“I give him two months,” Andy said. “It’s plain as pudding he misses Cait.”

“I hope you won’t ride him
too
hard.”

“Not even as much as I talked. It’s Harry’s principle: tight at first, then slacken. Still, my guess is he’ll want to go back. If that’s the case, tell Cait I’ll bring him as soon as I can—for a visit if not more.”

“After the season?”

“Hell, we’re so far ahead I could set off for wild Nebraska next time we’re in St. Louis. Alice would love to see some of the West—and by then we’ll probably be making more kids.”

The casualness of it brought home to me what a different time this was, with infant death common in most families.

We shook hands warmly.

“Cait needn’t think I’ll crow over this,” he said, “and see it as my way winning out over hers.”

I asked what he meant.

“She’s always held that playing ball has no meaning.” He waved toward the house. “But it’s made this possible, and it’s been every bit as hard to pull off as what she’s tried, though Cait won’t likely admit it.”

I thought I understood. He wanted some sort of validation from his older sister. And, despite his denial, Tim’s arrival probably represented that.

Next morning, July 20, two stories out of Chicago were reprinted
in all the Boston papers. The first dealt with the disappearance of aeronaut W. H. Donaldson. Six days previously he’d lifted off in the
P.T. Barnum
for a 120-mile flight across Lake Michigan. A schooner last sighted the balloon a dozen miles offshore hovering so low that its gondola actually bumped the surface. The captain launched a rescue boat, but the balloon was carried away before it arrived. Subsequent storms had brought heavy winds, and fears were mounting for the daring pilot.

I pictured Donaldson with his jaunty grin, swinging down from the suspension hoop to land beside me after our crash. I hoped he would beat the odds once again. But I had a bad feeling.

The other piece was captioned “The Nine for Next Year” and presented the opening-day lineup for the 1876 White Stockings. Among the names: pitcher Spalding, catcher White, second baseman Barnes, and rightfielder McVey, all currently with Boston.

“Taking the field early,” the writer enthused, “Chicago’s managers have been able to engage a nine which is well nigh invincible.” They’d already signed contracts. The raid was complete.

I tried to assess what it might mean to Andy, but as I stepped onto the train at the Boston station, my thoughts began to shift back to my mission for Cait and the O’Neill colony, and thus toward Saratoga Springs and the rendezvous I sought with an old enemy: Red Jim McDermott.

 NINETEEN